


I'm Selfish, I'm Obscene

by passionfruits



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: M/M, lots of emotions revealed thru intimacy, this is filthy I am so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-08 18:37:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11652366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passionfruits/pseuds/passionfruits
Summary: A collection of Roseph intimacy. A bittersweet treatise on the unholy trinity of Joseph, Robert, and Mary.AKA how much kink, fluff, and angst can I shove in one messy piece of emotional erotica? If you haven't readcovetyet, I recommend doing that first. It's a good prequel.





	1. This Thing That We Keep

WINTER

Joe’s wearing the goddamn sweater. Properly. The knit clings to every inch of his toned body. Too tight on him, the patron saint of physical perfection. It’d been just the right size on Rob, and Rob isn’t exactly small himself--except in name.

Heh. No one around to appreciate the dad jokes in his head.

The sweater shouldn’t surprise him. Joe wears it every day. It's Christmas. Chilly. Of course the man would need a sweater. Rob had just been expecting the hokey kind, garish red with LED lights, a tree and reindeer, maybe old Saint Nick.

Not this.

Rob stands in the Christiansen living room, staring. He’s always staring, but he can’t figure out why Joe’s wearing it like that. Why today? Is it just a new way to torment him?

Most likely. And it’s working, of course it’s working, but Rob won’t let it show. He’ll just sit with Mary, his personal barricade (Mary-cade, as they joked) and down some Brandy Alexanders and to hell with anyone who’d judge him for drinking the equivalent of alcoholic ice cream.

Joe is talking to Mat and Carmensita, holding a plate of frosted cookies in the shape of reindeers’ heads. “Mary took the kids to their grandparents’ this year,” he explains. They look visibly relieved.

God. Damn. It.

Joe looks up, as if he’s psychically tuned to catch Rob off-guard. “Hey, neighbor! Glad you could make it. Could you come help me in the kitchen for a bit? We’ve got a lot of hungry folks to feed here.”

A chill caresses Rob’s spine. He downs the shot he cleverly brought from home, slams the glass on the mantlepiece, and follows.

In the kitchen, Joe saunters toward the sink and turns, letting the setting sun frame him in the window. His neighborly smile fades to a slight smirk, the laughter lines around his eyes erased. “It’s a tight fit,” he says, gesturing to his torso. “What do you think?”

Bitterness rises in the back of Rob's throat, mixed with a twinge of longing. “I think your closeted ass is obsessed with the one taste of happiness you had before you fucked it up like the chickenshit you are.”

Joe’s smile vanishes for a fraction of a second, before beaming back in full force, emphasizing the hard lines of his chiseled cheekbones. “Ouch, Robby. Skipping the foreplay today? You of all people should know how much going in dry hurts.”

_All right, Robert. You’ve officially fucked yourself over._

Slowly, Joe tugs the hem of the sweater above his arms. It catches on his polo, making it ride up, showing off the lines of his hipbones, the curve of his abs. He lifts it over his head, ruffling his hair, leaving his shirt in disarray.

Rob’s mouth is actually watering, the piece of shit. He swallows again. Joe’s gaze catches on his Adam’s apple, bobbing. He smiles with blinding white teeth and sidles over to where Rob waits by the kitchen island. He throws the sweater around Rob’s shoulders, tying the sleeves together with a lazy twist, and leans forward, hands on either side, boxing Rob against the counter. “You’re right. It looks better on you,” he murmurs. “Do you want it back?”

It smells like him. Sterilized with ocean breeze detergent and a whiff of cologne. It used to smell like Robert’s house, before.

Rob says nothing. Joe knows damn well what he wants.

Joe’s eyes rove across Rob’s face. “You showered today?”

Rob grunts and looks away, fixating on a plant in the windowsill. Anything that’s not Joe’s eyes. “Yeah.”

Joe leans in, nose brushing the hollow of Rob’s throat, breath warm on his neck. “You smell good.”

Not likely next to him. Armani cover-boy. Rob leans back, bracing himself. “Thought you liked me dirty.”

Joe’s eyes flicker to Rob’s, electric.

Rob’s heart stops.

Joe’s hands slip inside the back of Rob’s jeans, trailing down his tailbone. “Just how clean did you get?” His fingers delve lower. Rob bites his lip to keep from emitting what would unequivocally be a squeak. “Thoroughly, then.” Joe lets out a breathy chuckle. A flush rises to Rob’s cheeks as Joe whispers into his ear. “Were you expecting something?” The rumble of excitement in his voice makes Rob’s knees weak.

Rob looks away with a click of his tongue. Joe grasps his chin and forces him to look into his bright blue eyes. They bore through him, set his blood aflame.

Rob’s never been good at denying himself.

Soundlessly, Rob crushes himself to Joe’s lips, grasping his face as he has a thousand times before, thumbing the dimples at the corners of his mouth. They deepen as Joe smiles into the kiss. He grasps Rob’s hands and turns his head, Rob’s palms passing over the planes of the face he memorized years ago. Joe’s mouth settles on the spot between Rob’s thumb and forefinger.

The tattoo.

Joe drags his teeth across the ink, raising goosebumps along Rob’s arms. He looks down with heavy lids, tongue flickering against sensitive skin.

Damn his eyes. Almost honest, and always inescapable. Shuddering, Rob pulls his hand free of Joe’s teeth and grabs him by the hips.

Joe pulls something from his left pants pocket and leans forward with a smirk, running his hands over the curve of Rob’s ass. “You want a reward for cleaning up?”

Joe and his games. The worst part is, Rob’s always down. He doesn’t say anything. He wraps his arms around Joe’s waist, hides his face in the crook of Joe’s neck, and gives a sharp nod.

“Good boy,” Joe says, and licks his own fingers. He presses into Rob’s ass with one finger, then two, then something else, small and metallic, that he slips inside.

A flush creeps up Rob’s neck. He chances a look at Joe’s face. He’s smiling with the innocence of an angel.

A muffled voice sounds from the game room down the hall. Rob rips the sweater from his shoulders and drops it, twisting to face the doorway. Joe simply turns, one hand on the counter, the other still down the back of Rob’s jeans.

“Hey.” Brian peers into the kitchen with a slight frown. “You almost done in here? Kids’re ready to start the movie.”

“Be right along,” Joe says easily, as if his fingers aren’t inside Rob’s ass. “Just put the roast in the oven.” He presses something and the vibrator starts, well, vibrating. It’s the lowest possible frequency, but it still makes Rob jump. He hopes it isn’t obvious. He swallows, face hot, gaze flickering to Brian.

With one last glance and a nod, Brian leaves, Joe slips his hands out of Rob’s pants, and they join the others to sit down on the loveseat and watch the damn movie.

Whatever it is, Rob sure as hell can’t pay attention with the constant heat spreading through his ass in waves. It’s not enough to do anything but make him uncomfortably hot. Joe isn’t helping, watching every minute shift in expression on Rob’s face instead of the movie, arm slung behind Rob’s shoulder, his anchor tattoo peeking from under his sleeve. He leans over every few minutes, as if he’s making comments about the wholesome family show. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard you see heaven,” he whispers, the sound tickling Rob’s ear.

You know. Cute shit like that.

It takes a good goddamn half hour for the timer to ding, an excuse for them to disappear again. 

After they check on the roast and start the timer again, another half hour, Joe leads him by the hand, _by the hand_ , to the garage. It’s dimly lit by sickly amber light. Only one covered car is parked inside.

Joe removes the cover and there it is. A bright pink convertible decorated with chroming and neon taillights. Straight out of the 50s.

“I haven’t taken her out on the road for a while,” he says, patting the side.

Rob snorts. “You wanna fuck me in your hotrod? How much more of a rich fuckboy cliche can you get?”

“Is there anything we haven’t done?”

“If there is, it’s because you haven’t thought of it yet.”

Joe only laughs with unabashed delight. “You know what kind of man I am. Don’t sell yourself short, Rob. You’re wild, too.” He leans against the car and hooks a thumb toward the backseat. “Want to go for a ride?”

Joe always gives him the option to quit. And Rob never takes it. He jumps in, the seats squeaking on impact. Joe’s close behind; his hands form a vise around Rob’s neck, shoving him nose-first into the leather upholstery. A surge of white-hot heat floods Rob’s groin as Joe's fingers tighten around his windpipe. God, he’s whipped; the response is ingrained, happens any time Joe so much as gives his shoulder a friendly squeeze. He grinds into the front of Joe’s pants, pleased to find him just as hard. At least Rob has some effect. Joe tugs Rob’s jeans down just enough to give him access, followed by the sound of his zipper opening. He digs his manicured nails into Rob’s ass and drags them down, ending with a hard slap that makes Rob bite the nearest thing, which happens to be a mouthful of leather.

It’s embarrassing how much he likes that, and more embarrassing that Joe knows he can slap Rob until he can’t sit right for a week and he’ll thank him for it.

Joe has Rob spread himself open and finally tugs the vibrator out, thankfully; Rob was starting to think that he’d come from absolutely nothing but a pathetic amount of anal stimulation and Joe’s teasing. Joe would never let him live it down. Joe’s tongue replaces the vibrator and Rob has to suppress a groan of pleasure. Rob turns to look over his shoulder, get a nice visual of Joe eating him out, and sees him reaching for something below the seat.

“You gonna tie me up this time?”

Joe holds up a small bottle of lube with a wink. “Just a little.” He upends the entire thing on Rob’s ass and rubs it in, everywhere, oiling him, hands pumping his shaft, fondling his balls. When Rob begins shaking, Joe twines nothing more than a bit of string around the base. “You’re liable to burst at any second. We can’t have that.”

Jesus.

Joe pulls his cock through the hole of his pants and rubs it, slick, against Rob's ass. “I wanna come inside you,” he says, voice husky.

Well, Robert would very damn much like that too. Didn’t mean it was a good idea. “If you’re messing around with anyone else--“

“Only you,” Joe confirms. “You know that.”

Rob can’t handle that, still. Years, years and years. He blushes like a schoolgirl, buries his face in his elbow and mutters. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Joe’s right hand is tight around Rob’s neck, nails digging into his throat, sending delicious darts of pain singing to his head. His left leaves slap after stinging slap on Rob’s ass, sometimes wandering to rub his balls, travel up his stomach, circle his nipples. It’s all Rob can do to keep his elbows and knees on the seat as Joe plows into him from behind. Rob tries to keep his moans quiet. Surely everyone inside can hear the rhythmic squelching and slapping. But it just feels too damn good. Joe’s every thrust hits the spot that sends sparks shooting through Rob’s veins, even as his cock twitches, unable to find release. Only Joe could reduce him to this, dammit, sweat pouring from every inch of his body, eyes filling with tears, a thousand ways to beg on the tip of his tongue.

Joe’s grip loosens, just enough to let his fingers roam up the column of Rob’s neck, thumb under his jaw. He leans down, turning Rob’s face to his so he can plant sweet kisses on his lips. “Baby,” Joe whispers, and with that, against all his better judgment, Rob knows he’s putty in Joe’s hands. “Say my name.” Joe’s voice is controlled as ever, if a little hoarse. The only sign he’s exerting any effort at all is the soft, erratic stutter of his breath, slightly ragged, and the tremor in his fingertips.

“No,” Rob manages. All this, and that’s the one thing Rob won’t do. “Just fuck me harder.”

Joe purrs at that, actually purrs. “You feel so good. So tight.” His fingers toy with the knot around Rob’s cock. “Sweetheart, you’re the best.”

Rob grunts in pleasure and frustration alike, clawing at Joe’s arms, the tattoo, his tattoo, _his man_. “Hurry up and take it off.”

“You’ll ruin my pristine leather interior.” Joe bites Rob’s ear. “Besides. Why don’t you take it off yourself? Nothing’s stopping you.”

Silence.

“That’s what I thought.”

Joe is buried in Rob, lazily grinding his hips, rustling for something in his khakis, designer cotton tickling against Rob's ass. He retrieves a garishly bright violet condom and slips it onto Rob’s cock. It’s stupid that Rob finds that so hot. Joe runs his fingers along the underside of the shaft, squeezing when he reaches the base. “You can come like this,” he whispers, and unties the knot.

Rob does, and it hits him so hard he probably screams, but he can’t hear anything except the blood flushing through his ears, can’t see anything but white stars and dancing black spots. When he comes back to himself, he’s moaning wordlessly, back arched, toes curled, Joe’s hand clamped over his mouth, his relentless thrusting slowing in bursts as he comes in Rob’s ass, rutting through and past the orgasm until even Joe can’t move another second.

With a satisfied sigh Joe lets go and sits back, taking the link of heat and fullness with him. Rob wants to weep. Instead he turns around, tingling and shuddering with bliss, to witness Joe in all his post-coital beauty. Golden hair damp, blue eyes glassy, chest heaving, a sheen of sweat coating his skin, pink with the rash of exertion and streaked with the scratches Rob carved into his arms.

Why does he look like that, even now? A goddamn Greek statue. Cold as marble. Hard as stone.

Rob bends over and takes all of Joe’s shaft in his mouth, licking it clean. He pulls Joe’s face to his in an open-mouthed kiss, passing saliva and semen alike with his tongue.

Their communion.

 

When they shuffle back through the garage door and into the kitchen, Joe pulls a pot from the cold stovetop and makes a show of sloshing it around. “Oh, Rob, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I just spilled the cranberry sauce. Run on up to my room real quick and dig through my drawers. You can borrow anything you like.” He stares into Rob’s eyes, pulling the sweater on, hiding the evidence with a wink.

Robert tries not to vomit.

He throws the condom in the trash. He doesn’t take a shower. Might as well accept the consequences, let every bit of Joe leak out of him, slowly, like a bad trip. Get him out of his system.

Not likely.

Staring into the bathroom mirror, he presses his fingers into the marks Joe left, ringing his throat like a damn trophy wife’s necklace. God, he needed a scarf or high-collared jacket or some shit. Maybe Mary had something in her closet. God, Mary.

God, he’d be jacking off with one hand around his neck tonight.

God, Joe would want to watch. Maybe set up a call while he composes a sermon.

Robert rubs his scruffy chin, staring himself in the eyes. The bags are getting worse.

He wants to live in this stupid house and raise those stupid cute kids and be that asshole Joseph Christiansen’s stupid husband. But he knows what Joe would say to that. What he always says, with a hollow smile.

_Isn’t this enough?_

God. God. God.


	2. Old Habit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joseph shows up at Robert's house with a bottle of wine. Antics ensue.

SPRING

The knock comes around eleven at night on some date of the year Rob’s too out of it to remember (he’s pretty proud of having the wherewithal to check the time). He’s about to get in his truck and drive nowhere, blasting music while thinking about everything, when a crisp beat sounds from his front door: Shave And A Haircut, without the Two Bits.

Goddamn Joseph Christiansen.

The knock is just a formality, some play at respect. He can walk in any time he wants.

Rob opens the door. Joe is leaning against the frame, arms crossed, mischief in his eyes, a bottle of Rob’s favorite white zin slung against his hip.

He’s the most beautiful thing Rob’s ever seen. Immaculate. Unholy.

Rob’s fists ball at his sides. He wants to hit him, mess up that perfect, pretty face, see him black-eyed, licking the blood from his nose.

He wants to curl up in his arms and cry.

Joe winks. “Howdy, neighbor.” He raises the bottle, along with his eyebrows. "Can I borrow some sugar?"

Rob jerks his chin toward the living room, glowering. Joe follows.

“What’s with that look? Were you heading out? Trying to make me jealous with a date?”

“Yeah,” Rob snorts. “Gorgeous guy. Taller and bigger than you. Tells me what he’s thinking and feeling. Devoted. Wants to marry me. Crazy stuff, I know.”

Joe’s face falls for a moment, and Rob almost feels bad. The wicked glint in his eyes returns quick enough. “Oh, Rob. You and your stories.” He glances around the destroyed living room with a critical eye. “Have you eaten today?”

Rob folds his arms across his chest. “Define _eaten_.”

Joe frowns.

“Also define _today_.”

With the withering glare of disappointment usually reserved for his children, Joe steps into the kitchen, rooting through the fridge for something other than beer and salami. He manages to forage enough ingredients to cobble into a decent sandwich. He takes a seat at the table with a plate, two glasses of wine, and a proud smile. “Sit down and eat the sandwich, Robert.”

Rob sits down and eats the sandwich.

He doesn’t like Joe coming over. He cleans shit. Makes passive-aggressive comments. Leaves plates of goddamn cookies. Gets in his personal space, leaves when it suits him. Not like there are any depths under Rob’s skin that Joe hasn’t already found, but he keeps what space he can.

Once he’s done eating and they’ve both downed a glass, Joe leans across the table, running his fingers along Rob’s tattoo. “Wanna dance?”

Rob laughs.

Joe hooks his phone up to the speakers. Something slow, with the kind of guitar riffs and crooning vocals that precede sex in a shitty action flick. Bass floods the room, reverberating in time with Rob’s heartbeat.

The floorboards creak with Joe’s footsteps and the pounding music. He slips a hand into Rob’s and the other around his waist, drawing him tight against his swaying hips.

Rob stumbles along with him, cutting a path through the trash on his floor. “You’re serious.”

“Always.”

Fine. Let him be romantic. Rob wraps an arm around Joe’s hips, palms settling into the small of his back, and drops his head on Joe’s neck. “The turntable’s better.”

“That’s nostalgia talking,” Joe counters, voice low. “You’ve always been sentimental.” He kisses Rob’s forehead, rests his chin on the top of his head. “From the day I met you.”

 _I wish you never had._ Rob hugs him.

They dance, bodies pressed together, heartbeats pounding in rhythm. Joe’s quiet. Rob usually has to shut him up by shoving something down his throat. He frowns, hunting for some sign hidden in Joe's face.

Joe looks tired. The permanent creases under his eyes are stark against his pale skin. Rob kisses each of his eyelids in turn, soft, gentle. Joe smiles like he means it.

This is what undoes Rob the most--the little cracks, the signs indicating a man beneath the mask.

On days like this, Robert wonders--fears--that this really is Joe. That he believes everything he’s ever said; that the lines and bits aren’t lines and bits, that he’s honestly just that repressed. That there’s no facade. That the real act is the side he shows only Rob--like they both need an excuse.

That it’s all just evidence of one depressed, sorry, fucked-up man. That Rob, acting like he has any right to judge, hurts him with every insult. Rob wouldn’t be surprised. He’s the worst; a nasty, dysfunctional, self-loathing mess, and he knows it, and that only makes the self-loathing worse, the habits harder to break.

Or maybe Rob’s just a simple, straightforward, honest idiot, and everyone else in the world is like that, compartmentalizing and justifying and living for some intangible societal ideal.

The song ends but Joe keeps swaying, kissing him backward onto a chair, straddling him. Another slow jam follows the first.

Rob settles his hands on the back of Joe’s hips, pulling him solidly into his lap. “You’ve got a whole playlist set up?”

“Yeah. It’s called _For Seducing Robert_.”

“Not very clever. Where are your dad jokes now?”

He does that cute thing where he places a hand on his chest, looking away all demure with his lower lip between his teeth. “I don’t joke about you.”

Rob pours himself a shot of whiskey and takes it. Joe leans in to lick it from his lips. Every time he shifts, Rob gets uncomfortably aware of the warmth in his jeans.

Joe smiles knowingly and takes a sip of his second glass of zin. “Should I mix us margaritas?”

Rob presses his tongue between Joe’s lips, questing for drops of the wine, Joe’s minty breath soured by alcohol. “Tequila fucks me up.”

“I remember," Joe teases.

Rob glares. “I’m not getting back on your fuckboat.”

“Fuck yacht,” Joe corrects. “And it’s not like I need to get you there.” He sighs. “That’s not what I mean. It’s beautiful, Rob. I want you to be there with me, out on the open sea.”

Joe standing at the helm of his ship, soaking up the sun. Warm hair, warm hands, in his element. Rob swallows. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Think you won’t ever want to come back to shore?”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

Joe leans back with a sly grin, his hands resting behind him on Rob’s knees. Rob blinks up at him, angled like the portrait of a nobleman. Were his clothes designed to stop people breathless at the sight of him? He’s so damn big. The polo stresses the size of his biceps, the curve of his pectoral muscles, the hardness of his nipples, the khakis outlining his half-erect cock. Rob tries to ignore the sweater. Irritation swells in his stomach anyway.

Rob’s hands map the span of Joe’s collarbone to his groin, fondling every inch of him along the way. “Dinner, drinks, dancing. Here I thought you were gonna walk through my door, pick me up, and fuck me against the wall.”

“Robert, please. I have some class,” Joe says, in a voice that indicates anything but, his hands sliding up the length of Rob’s inner thigh. “Of course, if that’s what you want, I’m more than willing and able to provide.”

Rob considers it. Joe holding him aloft by the hips, ramming into him from behind, mindless with lust.

He takes another shot.

Joe laughs from deep in his chest. “Can’t get it up, old man?”

Offended, Rob bites down hard on Joe’s neck. That coaxes a rumble from deep in his chest. “Let me help,” Joe says, fumbling for something on the table. He grabs Rob’s throat, his grip iron, and exposes his neck. With the blunt side of one of Rob’s knives, he draws a thin line, fingers tight around Rob’s windpipe.

Heat shoots to Rob’s groin. He tenses with a stifled groan. Is there a damn switch running from his neck to his dick?

“Always works like a charm.” Joe winks.

“Fuck you.” Rob hoists Joe by the waist and stumbles to his feet. He’s not quite as strong, and it’ll take a toll on his back in the morning, but damn him. He tosses Joe roughly on the couch and clambers on top of him, a sea of microwavable wrappers falling to the floor, his hands sliding into the front of Joe’s pants.

“Slow down,” Joe says, like it’s the last thing on earth he wants Rob to do. He licks his lips. “Let me make it up to you.”

Rob lets Joe slither out from under him. He sits up. Joe kneels between his legs.

Well. Okay.

Joe unzips Rob’s jeans and pulls out his pretty damn hard now cock. He presses his nose into a thatch of coarse hair, breathing deep. Rob tells himself any decent person would find that revolting, or at least pretend to.

They’re not decent people.

Slowly, Joe slides his tongue from taint to tip. Rob's breath catches; he giggles. “Dinner, drinks, dancing, and a show, too?”

Joe pauses in his ministrations with a stern look. “I swear to God, Robert, if you turn on that goddamn TV I’ll bite you in half. Last time you held me with your cock down my throat for the entire credit sequence of The Return of the King. _I swallowed nine and a half goddamn minutes of my life and a ridiculous amount of cum_.”

So Rob doesn’t turn on the TV. Best believe Joe when he swears to God.

If Rob’s being entirely honest, watching Joe suck his dick is probably a preview of heaven. Despite his stories about camping trips cross-country and encounters with cryptids, nothing he’s seen compares to Joe’s pale lips around his (decently-sized, he thinks) length, his bright eyes flashing up at him, eyebrows slightly drawn with the effort.

Joe’s really into it, too. Enthusiastic as hell, bobbing up and down, tongue laving at everything from slit to balls, his fingers rubbing at the spot just underneath.

“Right there.” Rob groans. His fingers twine in Joe’s hair, sparks shooting through his body.

Joe snorts. “I know very well where. You’re a foghorn. Remember when the entire neighborhood formed a search party because they thought some monster had finally gotten you? And all because of this.” He demonstrates, his mouth slowly sliding down the tip of Rob’s cock, tongue drawing figure eights along the way.

Rob flushes with desire and embarrassment alike. He grabs Joe’s head, shoves him down to the base and holds him there. He can’t resist the decidedly un-dad-like joke. “Choke on a dick.”

Joe gags. His eyes flicker to Rob’s, a fierce snarl carved in his cheeks, nostrils flared.

Rob smirks. That’s a good look on him.

Joe recovers quickly and chuckles, the vibrations reverberating through Rob’s cock. He gasps, loosening his grip on Joe’s hair with an involuntary shudder. Joe hums, and suddenly every minute change in tone and sound sends shivers through Rob’s core.

Amendment: Watching Joe _angrily_ suck his dick is a preview of heaven.

No matter how much Rob wants to watch, it feels too good to do anything other than let his eyelids flutter shut, his lips parting. His cock engulfed in heat, a wet tongue swirling from the base to the tip, flicking at the slit, fingers stroking his balls, every sound Joe makes echoing through Rob’s body. Fire ribbons from his core to his head, his limbs trembling. He digs his nails into his thighs; he’d hold Joe’s head again, but he’s liable to shove him down too hard when he’s like this, and he doesn’t want to hurt him. His hips thrust up of their own accord, just enough, trying to get even more, even deeper.

With a slick pop, the heat is gone, replaced by a gentle tugging on his balls that brings him back from the edge. Rob opens his eyes. Joe’s smirking up at him, very pleased with himself.

“Hey.” Rob ruffles Joe’s hair with a frown, too horny to actually be upset. “Hey. That’s rude.”

“You start whining in the back of your throat when you’re about to come.” Joe wipes saliva from the corner of his mouth with a smirk. “At your age, you’ve only got one shot in you.”

Rob leans down, pressing their foreheads together. “If you want it, then let’s go.”

Rob’s ashamed of the state of his room, but Joe slides back on the rumpled sheets like they’re silks in a palace while Rob shucks off his clothes. Rob strips him, too, starting with the khakis. Joe’s eyes watch him all the while, the same small grin twitching on his lips.

When Rob’s fingers slide under the hem of Joe’s sleeve so he can kiss the tattoo on his bicep, he chuckles, tugging the knot of his sweater free, removing it from his shoulders. “It’s lost your scent,” he says, balling it in his fists. “I miss it.”

Rob sits back on his feet, baffled. “So, what? You come around to make it reek again?”

“You don’t reek, Rob.”

 _And you didn’t answer the question._ But Joe’s words tug at Rob’s heart, and he hates that they do. “What do I smell like, then?”

Joe glances up at the ceiling and bites his lip, really thinking. “Tobacco. That’s the strongest. Takes the longest to fade. Whiskey, too, and musk.”

Rob thinks of all the times Joe’s pressed against him with the sweater around his shoulders. He rubs his thumb across his fingers, fidgeting. He takes the sweater, lifts the polo over Joe’s head, and lies on top of him, kissing his lips, biting his neck.

“Wear it for me,” Joe whispers, his hands cupping Rob’s face.

Rob remembers Christmas. The sweater, wrapped briefly around his own neck. Maybe it smelled like him for a day. Maybe it’d smell like him for a week if he wore it now.

Rob looks at the sweater, balled in the corner of the bed. Wear it? Don’t?

Which will bring Joe back to him sooner?

He studies Joe’s face. Crow’s feet wrinkle the hollows around his eyes. He’s smiling, but it’s more of a grimace, lips thin, a twitch in his cheek, like he might burst into tears at any second.

Rob sits up and pulls the sweater over his head.

Joe looks him over, smile unreadable, and leans back into the pillows. “You wanna tie me up?” His voice is honey, commanding in the form of a question.

For Joe, and because of him, yeah, Rob goddamn did wanna tie him up. Keep him forever, make him spill his secrets. Though Rob would be happy just making love in the sweetest, sloppiest of ways, all feelings, no nonsense--they can start like this, work it out like this. Rob’s not planning on letting Joe finish any time soon. He’s gonna ruin him, see how much he can get him to beg, promise. Usually quite a lot. The man deserves some goddamn agony.

“Fine. Take what you dish.” Rob opens Joe’s drawer in the bedside dresser to find what he needs: stupid pink ropes and a bottle of lube. He ties Joe’s arms to the headboard with a simple, sturdy knot, and sits back.

Okay. It’s never the worst thing in the world to have Joe spread out on his messy bed, arms tied above his head, completely exposed and unable to do a thing about it.

With a callused hand, Rob strokes Joe, his tattoo stark next to the pale pink of his cock. Joe tenses and lets out a huff, but refuses to react properly.

This is the fun part.

Rob doesn’t hesitate. He bends down to deepthroat Joe and is rewarded with a quiet gasp. His rough fingers slide against the soft skin below his cock, finding the patterns that make Joe vocalize. Unlike him, Rob shot his gag reflex years ago. He could do this for days without coming up for air.

Joe’s breath hitches, and no matter how incredibly hot Joe is when he’s in control, this is just as good. Utterly defenseless, his skin flushed red, his hands twisting in the bedsheets. At least something about him is honest.

Rob flicks a finger against the base of Joe’s cock, grinning as he startles. “What’s wrong? You done bossing me around? Nothing you want to make me do?”

He bites his lip, flushed to the tips of his ears. “I want...whatever...you want, Rob.” He can’t look Rob in the eyes.

Oh, man.

Rob coats his hands in lube and dumps the rest on Joe without ceremony, earning a small hiss. He rubs it into him, massaging his ass until he can slip a finger in, then another, then another. Joe’s biting his lip, face hot as the sun, wrists twisting in their restraints. Rob is grateful for the ropes. They stop Joe from hiding his expression, running his obnoxiously skillful hands over Rob, flipping them over, doing anything to take back some advantage. Joe’s good at a lot of things, but giving up control isn’t one of them. That’s why he needs some encouragement.

Rob kneels between Joe’s legs, holding his cock against his entrance. The heat against the tip is enough to make his mouth water. He swallows, looking into Joe’s narrowed eyes. “You good?”

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” Joe spits, chest heaving.

Rob laughs out loud. “Amen,” he says, and slides inside Joe, fingers digging into the meat of his hips as he shivers beneath him. Rob lets out a gasp. The shock of the tight heat is overwhelming, zinging through his bloodstream, straight to his head so fast he sees fireworks.

Rob stays deep inside Joe, hips gyrating in slow circles. Joe’s breath catches; his eyelids slide shut. Rob digs his hands into Joe’s ass and leans forward, fluttering kisses from waist to abdomen, stopping to press his face into the deep cleft of his breastbone, bite circles around his nipples, tongue flicking the tips, holding his lips a breath from Joe’s. “Look at me, or I’ll stop,” he whispers.

Joe’s eyes flash open. Rob grins, toothy. “Cute,” he says, and before Joe can argue that point, he seals his lips with deep, hungry kisses. Joe moans something, probably something very ungodly, his brows furrowed. But he keeps his eyes open, full of burning desire. Rob bites his lips, his jaw, his throat. He leaves perfect imprints of his teeth along Joe’s neck, hands laying light slaps across the backs of Joe’s thighs and ass, undulating his hips into him. No, he wasn’t gonna let Joe finish anytime soon, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t work him over with pounding anal orgasms.

Joe wraps his legs around Rob’s waist, his feet digging into the muscles working through Rob’s ass. Rob thrusts in quick, small movements, just enough to massage the spot that makes Joe shudder and moan involuntarily, the musk of sex and the wet sound of their skin slapping together filling the air. Rob grabs Joe by the jaw, bringing their foreheads together so he can watch everything pass over his face. Joe holds his stare, returned with fervor. When the first orgasm hits, Joe convulses in Rob’s arms; his eyes roll back, his lips part in a stream of _fuckfuckfuckyouRob _. It’s always easy from there. Joe’s lips loosen with every thrust, catching between his teeth, forming around his pleasure. His eyes dart aimlessly, and he somehow flushes even more when they catch on Rob’s relentless stare. He moans freely, grinds into him. “Don’t stop,” he says, at the second. “Please,” he says at the third, sweat pouring down his neck.__

__Despite their endless vocabulary of dirty things, a simple please always switches Rob on the fastest. Joe doesn’t like to beg._ _

__“Say you’re mine,” he says, fingers tracing the tattoo that marks Joe as his, hoping his voice doesn’t break._ _

__Joe inhales sharply through flared nostrils. “I’m yours,” he grinds out._ _

__A light bubbles in Rob’s chest and spreads through him like springwater. Rob can’t help but bark out a laugh. His control is slipping, he runs on instinct. Heat, sweat, limbs. “You’re fucking filthy,” Rob growls. “Shameless.” He lifts Joe’s leg and pulls him onto his lap, making Joe’s hips torque, sliding in until he’s buried as deep as he can get. It’s not enough. He wants them to be one. Rob manages to untie him; he can’t bear to keep going without Joe’s arms around him. Once he’s free, Rob burrows into every inch of Joe’s flesh; a snarl of hands and nails and teeth tearing at his skin, begging to let him in._ _

__Just when Rob’s about to fall over the edge, he pulls out and presses Joe back into the sheets. His breath is ragged and burns his chest; he presses their cocks together, slick with lube and precum and pumps, over and over, until release shakes him so hard his legs quiver. Joe follows with a loud cry. Their spurts of cum coat him from his stomach to his face. With a limp exhale, he stills._ _

__Rob sits back, shins pressed so deep into the bed it’s formed a dent around him, body thrumming. He blinks, hazy, and looks down. Joe’s covered in marks. Raw bites, scratches, sweat and saliva and sticky threads of cum._ _

__There’s red under Rob’s nails. A wave of shame passes over him. He didn’t mean to--to what? He looks Joe over, pressing gently on the welts and wounds. Some of the scratches are oozing, some of the bites tore flesh. The ropes cut deep into his wrists._ _

__“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Joe winces, but grins. “I got you pretty good, too.”_ _

__Rob hadn’t noticed. There’s an ache around his neck and some new stings all over, but he didn’t feel anything but good._ _

__Joe somehow looks like the paragon of masculine beauty even dotted with blood and cum. Rob’s pretty sure he just looks like a sweaty mess. He certainly feels like one. He takes the sweater off and hovers over Joe, elbows on either side of his face, and pecks him chastely on the forehead. “Sorry,” he says, though he hates that he feels the need to apologize. He didn’t do anything wrong, did he? This was what they wanted._ _

__“Don’t be,” Joe replies, licking at the fluids on his face. “I’ve done far worse to you.”_ _

__Rob’s not sure what they’re talking about anymore._ _

__After Joe takes his time showering--he can’t stand the sticky mess for more than ten minutes or so--he curls up against Rob, their legs in a tangle, absently running his hand up and down the dark trail of hair along Rob’s stomach. Rob holds him close and strokes his head, examining each strand as his fingers comb through. He dreads the day he finds streaks of gray among the blond. That means it’ll have been too long, they’ve taken too long with...this._ _

__Rob’s already there. Joe says the salt-and-pepper of his hair is hot--even distinguished, if Rob ever cleaned up his act--but it just makes Rob remember how old they’re getting._ _

__A sound catches in Joe’s chest. Rob presses a large, scarred palm to his lover’s cheek, wipes a thumb at the reddish bags under his eyes. “You can cry, you know.”_ _

__"You--your hands are beautiful." Joe murmurs the words carelessly; Rob flushes as Joe kisses every scar on his palm in turn, then the tattoo, eyes closing. “I haven’t cried in years.” He presses his nose into the crook of Rob’s neck, breathes deep, and holds it, like he’s trying to keep Rob in his lungs. “I don’t want to start now.”_ _

__A lie. Probably. “What do you want?”_ _

__“I don’t know. But it’s not something so transient as happiness.”_ _

__If that wasn’t the biggest lie of all._ _

__Sometimes Rob gets to see a glimpse of the truth Joe tries so hard to hide. Usually in the afterglow. A muffled sigh. Wistful eyes, searching for some invisible horizon. His goddamn Margaritaville. That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? Dipping a toe into his ideal life, before going back to the part he plays so well._ _

__Joe nestles his face into Rob’s chest. “Honey, I love you so much.”_ _

__Rob sits up on his elbows, shock closing his throat. Joe’s cheeks are unusually hot, even for sex and a shower. “Are you drunk?” He asks, hoarsely._ _

__Joe considers this with a lopsided smile. “I might have gone to the kitchen and downed everything in sight.”_ _

__Well, that would be a lot. His breath reeks of it. God, he’s completely wasted, dangerously drunk. Rob decides to keep it light, if only because it’s what he’s best at, and no one listens when he’s serious. “If what you want is to fuck me, we’ll see if you can get it up once you’re sober.”_ _

__“If you doubt my stamina, you can ride me,” Joe murmurs into his ear. “Always a pretty sight.”_ _

__“That’s the one thing I don’t doubt about you. Goddamn horny bastard.”_ _

__“Pot, meet kettle. It’s a promise.” Joe shifts, his drunk eyes wandering across Rob’s room, probably judging every detail. He pauses when he sees a small frame on the floor next to the dresser._ _

__The goddamn picture, Christ, Rob forgot. Before he can hide it, Joe reaches over him and picks it up, fingers trailing against their happy faces, suspended in time. His eyes soften._ _

__Rob’s sure Joe didn’t keep a copy._ _

__“The last time I saw you smile like that. So innocent.” Joe sets it up on the dresser properly. He leans back on the pillows with a languid smile, eyes closed. “You’ve always been so easy, Rob.”_ _

__Joe’s already forgotten what he said. It didn’t mean anything. He’s drunk, that’s all. God knows the things Rob’s said when he’s drunk and doesn’t mean a word. But he's never seen him this smashed, never heard him say--that. Joe loves what Robert is; an easy, gullible idiot. Rob already knew that much. That’s all.__

____

____

__Rocking boat. Lapping waves. Swaying lights. A sense of wonder, disbelief that he could be so lucky. An ache behind his eye sockets, scuttling in his skull. Rob said it to Joe once. That night on the boat. Three words. The oldest spell. Unbreakable. Unrescindable._ _

____

____

__He wouldn't say it again._ _

__Rob swallows the lump in his throat, the gasp clawing through his chest, the scream strangled in his lungs. Something brushes against his neck; Joe's lips, a whiff of old leather._ _

Joe's wearing his jacket. 

__

Well. It's his, as much as the sweater is Joe's.

__

"It's a little big on you." Joe cranes his bite-riddled neck toward the sweater, folded neatly on the dresser. "I thought I'd return the favor."

Rob lights a cigarette and takes a drag, holds it in, and kisses Joe. His lover inhales, long and deep. He blows the smoke against Rob’s lips with a smile as inscrutable as his eyes. 

__

__Joe makes good on his promise, too, after a nap. Without a memory of his drunken rambling, he has Rob ride him into oblivion._ _

__When Rob finally wakes up, it’s probably late afternoon. He’d been tucked in at some point. Like a baby. It was a wonder Joe could get his sheets in order enough to do that._ _

__He blearily fumbles for a waist that isn’t there, a hand he can’t hold. He sighs, pushing himself up, feeling for his phone, at least. On the bedside dresser, his hands hit something cold and metallic._ _

__He opens his eyes. The picture rests next to a new whittling knife. Beside them both is a crisply folded note. He opens it with shaking hands, eyes scanning the perfect cursive._ _

_Happy Anniversary._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. I thought this chapter would be softer and sweeter but I feel like it's even more upsetting than the first. The song they danced to is Love Is a Bitch by Two Feet.
> 
> Does it make it any less sad if you pretend it was Ocean Man?


	3. My Own Damn Fault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rob n Mary, at the bar.

SUMMER

“God, I’d love to see him get fucked in the ass.”

Robert almost choked on his whiskey. Guess they’d found the equation for unlocking banned conversation topics: five shots and ten glasses of wine to mention the fact that your gay husband is having an affair with your best friend. With the best friend who is having the affair.

They were all so fucking fucked.

Mary continued, off-handedly, some mental dam broken. “Wouldn’t do anything for me, obviously, but it would give me some kinda satisfaction to see his perfect face wrecked.”

Robert thought of that face. It looked good. Really good. And his alone to see.

He flushed, not just from the alcohol prickling under his skin. “Bitterness is a great aphrodisiac,” he said, tongue clumsy at forming the words. That seemed safe.

She took another sip. “That Smashley, though. She was my type. If we’d met in college, the things I’d have done to that girl. I was known as the pegging queen. Imagine that, Rob.”

Robert could; and it made him giggle. But then he tried to find good words. Good words for a lifetime of lies. “I don’t know how you ever had...kids.”

The kids. They claimed the marriage was for them, but Rob knew first-hand what kind of trauma a dysfunctional relationship could wreak on a child. Let alone four of ‘em. But no matter how many times he tried to say so, it just didn’t register.

Mary snorted. “Buddy, there are two things you need to learn to understand closeted Christians: The first is _putting a baby in the oven solves all marital problems._ The second is the classic _close your eyes and think of Jesus._ And the third...” She burped. "The third is that no matter how much you rebel, in the end you do whatever your family wants, or you'll kill yourself from guilt."

The math was fuzzy, the sentiment horribly clear.

“Well, _he_ was probably thinking of Jesus. Or you. Me, I guess it’d be...Mary.” She laughed, loud and raucous. “Only one good enough for me is me, right?”

“Yeah,” Rob said, drunk brain trying to keep up. Robert couldn’t imagine it. Them together. Didn’t want to. 

"He's like one of your cryptids."

"No," Rob shook his head, too hard; the room spun. "At least cryptids follow rules. Only hunt on the full moon. Weak to iron. That kinda thing. He's got no rules. No weaknesses." Lights fragmented into stars above his head, the sounds of glasses clinking and patrons murmuring faded in and out of focus. “He’s an asshole,” he managed, proudly.

“You said it, brother.”

Robert dug a thumb into his tattoo. “I love him.”

“Yeah.” Mary sighed. “Me too. We love each other as much as we're able. God help us.”

“Forget God. That’s his favorite excuse. Everything’s out of his hands.” Robert bit his lip. “We all know better.”

With a world-weary sigh, Mary’s head dropped on his shoulder. “Stop being right, old friend. You’re gonna kill the cool repression vibe and make me cry.”

Rob swallowed and looked at the ceiling, hoping that’d get rid of the sting in the corners of his eyes.

Her fingers slipped into his hand, rubbing comforting circles in his tattooed skin. In silence, they watched the shape of the wheel distort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all love my lesbian Mary headcanon too bc this whole scenario hurts my heart. This is the end. I'm so sorry. I love these three with my whole heart and soul. Please talk to me about them.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Genghis Khan by Miike Snow, The Roseph Anthem. [Here is my Roseph playlist, feel things with me](https://open.spotify.com/user/asongthatslaps/playlist/5GtSvRPzwp6xDPr0HCpeDM).
> 
> Also please talk to me about Roseph constantly I am dying and want them to be happy. To quote Dee Reynolds: TELL ME I'M GOOD TELL ME I'M GOOD TELL ME I'M GOOD I want all of your comments constantly forever.


End file.
